Caring
by murderouspaperpen
Summary: Of the death and resurrection of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
1. He Cared

If you love something, let it die.

* * *

He cared. God, did he care for the mad genius. He cared so much that his limp came back when he was gone. He cared so much that he always fixed a second cup of tea, just in case his miracle had happened and Sherlock joined him for a cuppa. He cared so much that he soaked his pillow with salty tears each night, both before and after sleep and the inevitable nightmares that followed. He cared so much that he would sometimes go into Sherlock's room and just sit and be immersed in the memories before they, like Sherlock, faded from him forever. He cared so much that he even talked to the skull as he polished the Stradivarius, taking care to remove all dust and keep it gleaming before carefully placing it back in Sherlock's chair.

He cared about Sherlock Holmes. Which was why he had to stop. He had to let the man go because he was gone, dead, had committed suicide and left him alone in the cold and dark and guilt and pain. He had to let the detective go because, despite all his seemingly miraculous work, Sherlock wasn't Jesus, and he wasn't going to raise himself from the dead.

He stopped using the cane, and the limp eventually went away. He stopped fixing a second cup of tea because it was a waste to let it go cold. He stopped crying at night, took sleeping aids to help with the nightmares. He placed the violin and bow in its case and took it, along with that blasted skull, into Sherlock's room, sliding the case under the bed and putting the skull on the table. He closed the door and didn't enter the room again.

It took two and a half years, but he had done it. John Watson had cared about Sherlock Holmes, which was why he had to let it all die.


	2. He Cares

He cared too much, therefore he kept it alive.

* * *

Three years. Thirty-six months. One thousand ninety-five days. Twenty-six thousand, two hundred eighty hours. One million, five hundred seventy-eight thousand, eight hundred minutes. Ninety-four million, six hundred eight thousand seconds. In essence, three years is a long time, even more so when most of the one thousand ninety-five nights are spent sleepless, hungry and hurting but perservering because there was no other good (if such a thing existed) choice. Three years spent alone, driven by rage and a need to protect what he saw as his; John. Three years that were finally, blessedly over.

The former consulting detective huddled on the stoop, knocking at the door and hoping he would be heard. Mrs. Hudson never came to answer. He brought up a saved file that told him that the landlady was most likely out playing bridge with her sister and her friends. Tuesdays always meant bridge. He stored the file away and rapped once more, knowing that John would most likely be home and would let him in.

When the door was opened, he immediately knew something was wrong. That was not his John. His John was not stoic, his eyes had never been so cold, and he hadn't been limping before he had gone. A shiver danced down his spine. John had changed. So had he.

The taller man was too thin, thinner than he had been before. Though his grey eyes were sharp as ever, they were bloodshot and highlighted by dark rings of mottled black and purple. His John would have said something by now, if not an incredulous question of how he was alive, then at least a half-strained joke about his cheekbones. Nothing came but silence. He had expected more.

Though he was half-chilled from the cold, he managed a short explanation of his survival and how it was to save the ex-army doctor and the others. John said nothing, but ushered him inside and climbed up the staircase, the silence a stark reminder of the damage done. He followed suit, sadness lingering in his eyes before it was wiped away by his usual cool mask.

John was seated in his armchair by the time Sherlock entered the flat, a cup of tea at his lips. The detective was given the order to make his own tea, should he want any (after all, it would he quite useless for the doctor to make it only to have it grow cold and go to waste).

Sherlock didn't want any tea. Sherlock wanted his John back, because he cared far too much to let the man die and let this new, hard man take his place.


	3. He Hurts

All living things are dying.

* * *

He was allowed to take cases again. John never came and that upset him, because John always came along on cases. He asked about the blog and recieved the curt reply that no one read it anyhow. Somehow, that stung deeper than when John had insulted his website.

He still made his own tea. He finally found his violin and skull and placed the latter back on the mantle and the former on his shoulder, rosining the bow before putting it to the strings. He played for the first time in a long while. John flinched and left the room as quickly as possible. Sherlock tucked the instrument back into its case and took it and the skull back to his room.

John wouldn't patch him up anymore. Whenever he would come home from a case with a split lip or skinned knuckles or a cut or scrape, John would swallow and look away, gesturing towards the bathroom where the kit was located. Sherlock took care of his own wounds while John tried to shake the image of Sherlock's blood from his mind.

Sherlock knew it was his fault, all of it. Had he not allowed himself to be lured into the Game, if he had done better in protecting John, if he had been better, smarter, faster, none of it would have happened and he would have his John again. He knew it was his fault and only his fault that John had cut himself off, detached himself from his emotions and Sherlock.

That night, it wasn't John's pillow that was soaked through with tears.


	4. He Dies

Some things are dying faster than others.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was dying. He knew he was dying because the human body only held approximately five-point-six litres of blood and, at the moment, a great deal of that seemed to be coating the front of his shirt, turning purple to a garish maroon.

It was his fault, as all things seemed to have been for the past three and a half years. He had been stupid, weak, had been driven from his home by his own mind and emotions and out onto the cold streets, fingers flitting over his mobile's keyboard, contacting all old drug dealers he could think of that weren't imprisoned, eventually settling on Victor, one of his old favourites. They agreed to meet at their usual spot; back gate of Hyde Park. He disregarded the thoughts of being caught, of the repercussions, anything that wasn't the craving for a high, a fix to burn it away, to scorch the tears from his eyes, to cauterise the jagged edges of his mangled heart, to weld shut the gates to his emotions. He needed it urgently in a way he had never needed anything (barring John) before. He would die without it, he was convinced. He needed cocaine, and he was going to have it.

He supposed he could have gone for morphine, could have used it to pillow himself and drift from his problems, numbing his pains and allowing him peace. However, that would be too gentle, too kind, too cold. He needed the hellfire cocaine provided, needed the violent rush of brimstone through veins then the calm afterwards. Cocaine was the best choice.

He had met Victor and the transaction was made. However, the man had called him back, and Sherlock, guards down and believing the dealer had something else to provide him, had turned. The next few moments were a blur as the syringe fell to the damp ground and Sherlock followed it, a knife buried in his abdomen. The blade was firmly embedded it flesh and muscle, and he could see the moonlight dancing and shining off the hilt that was pressed flush to his body. Victor hissed an explanation of how Sherlock had gotten what he deserved, as their involvement had gotten him sent to prison via Mycroft. Sherlock would have laughed had he not been choking on gasps of pain. It was cliche, an almost stupidly mundane motive; it had been motive enough, though, and the druggie slunk off into the night as Sherlock slowly died.

His fingers fumbled with the mobile he had pulled from his pocket, and he hurriedly sent a text (_ Hyde Park. Hurt. Hurry. SH_; autocorrect had been a saviour) to John. He doubted the man would come, though - he never came any more. The mobile clattered to the ground and a breathless, half-laugh escaped him. He was going to die, truly die, and his best friend, his flatmate, his John wouldn't come to save him. His penance, he supposed, for his sins were many and death was the greatest price of them all. He found peace as his eyelids fluttered close and consciousness escaped him.


	5. They Live

Some things, when brought back to life, are stronger than before.

* * *

White. Everything was white and cold. For a moment, he wondered if his beliefs had been wrong and there was a heaven, which he had managed to find his way into. He quickly dismissed that thought, though; his sins were too many and too great to be allowed into heaven. Purgatory or hell would be more likely. And, despite Dante's contradiction, hell was generally believed to be tortuously hot, fire and brimstone and lake of pain. He was in neither, it seemed. The smell of antiseptic hit his nose, sharp and pungent, and his mind informed him he was, in fact, in hospital. A personal hell, if not the spiritual one.

Everything hurt, which he knew to be due to the fact that, as a former drug addict, they would give him nothing strong enough to ease his pain. He would simply have to bear it.

His mind was still muddled, and confusion fogged his brain. How had he gotten there? Who had found him? Blinking blearily, he slowly moved his head to the side, hoping to find his saviour's face.

John. John, whose eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot and a bit too bright to pass as dry. John, whose cheeks were flushed and whose hands were trembling. John, whose whole body practically radiated worry and emotion. John. His John. His John was back and was reaching for him, was placing a warm hand on his arm and who was apologising in a shaky, choked voice. Sherlock simply offered a half-twitch if his lips instead of a full smile and covered John's hand with his own.

They were both damaged, both hurt and afraid, but they were also loving and hopeful and stronger than they had been before. No words were needed as gentle touches and kisses expressed their sentiments properly. They both cared, they both hurt, and they both lived, together.


End file.
